His body blocked much of the light from his lamp, leaving her features shadowed, allowing him little beyond a general impression. Tall, lithe and self-possessed, even without the gun she commanded respect.

“Good evening.” Edison smiled, letting his lips curve up until he could feel the muscles around his eyes relax. More than a few women had sworn that smile made their hearts beat faster. Might give him an advantage now.

“What are you after?” The steel in her voice suggested his effort was wasted.

It took but an instant to assess the situation. She held the gun tightly—too tightly to aim accurately. Her familiarity with firearms probably equalled his mastery of embroidery.

Slowly, calmly, as if facing a skittish deer, he set the papers down and raised his hands, palms up, fingers spread to show he was unarmed. “I’m here to meet with Mr. Templeton.”

“Mr. Templeton died five years ago.” A dark ringlet escaped her upswept hair and swung gently by her ear. “Stop wasting my time.”

Her gaze swept over him, cataloging everything, from his simple boots to his unfashionable clothing. “Tell whoever sent you that I have no interest in negotiating.”

The barrel of the gun vibrated as if her anger flowed through the weapon. “I have no interest in selling. No interest in partners. No interest in investors.”

And—he was certain—no interest in harming him. A fact he fully intended to exploit.

He nodded vigorously as he imagined some hired lackey faced with a deadly weapon would do. “I understand. I’ll be most happy to convey your message.” Then he jerked his head, as if startled by something behind her. “Watch out!”

At his warning, she turned. The instant she reacted, he was on her, plucking the gun from her hand.

Once she realized she’s been tricked, she backed away, eyes wide with anger. “You jammy bastard.”

Outrage heightened her allure. Her body was slender, willowy even. Tall as she was, he topped her by half a head and five stone. Maybe more. Yet she’d faced him down with nothing but a handgun she had no idea how to use.

She was brave, he’d give her that.

He wanted to grin in the worst way, but even his rudimentary instincts warned him that would be like throwing kerosine on a roaring fire. Slender and willowy didn’t mean meek and helpless. The muscles around his mouth strained to keep his lips from curving. Goading her now would be like poking an angry cat. Nothing lethal would result, but the scratches would sting like hell.

She squared her shoulders and folded her arms over her chest. “It’s not here, so tell whoever sent you to stop annoying me.”

He stepped closer. “No one sent me. I’m here to—”

“I’m not a fool. How else would you have known about…” Her voice trailed off as she clearly thought better of revealing any more.

“The device?”

She pressed her lips together and stared off over his shoulder.

Edison stepped closer. He wanted to take her hands, to ease the fear pinching her face. “We know about the battery.”

The color drained from her cheeks, but she held her ground, didn’t rush to fill the silence with silly chatter.

Edison rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin, considering. “A man came to us a few days back. Said he was a scientist. He swore someone had stolen his invention and all of his notes. He tried to hire us to retrieve them.”

“And here you are.”

“The only thing we believed was his intent to take the battery.” Edison stepped closer. “I’m here to help, to take it to a safe place.”

“Of course.” Sarcasm salted her words. “And if I refuse?”

Damnation, the woman was stubborn. With an ease borne of much practice, he broke the revolver open at the barrel and tipped it back to extract the bullets, but the gun was empty.

She’d faced him down—faced down hired thugs—with an empty weapon. The very thought made him lightheaded. “Quite a bluff,” he said.

She shrugged, as if responding was too much trouble.

He shoved the unloaded weapon into the waistband of his trousers. “This man called himself Templeton. A-something Templeton.”

Though she fought to control her response, that bit of information clearly caught her attention.

“He’s a slight man. Fussy dresser.”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open, erasing all pretense of disinterest.

Her anguished expression made his gut twist. “Your husband.”

“No!”

“A… friend, then.” She was a mature woman after all. No reason she wouldn’t have a companion. Why the idea should be so disappointing, he had no idea.

“Lord no.” The woman grimaced as if she’d swallowed a noxious draught. “My stepbrother, Archibald Wells. He’s no Templeton.”

“Stepbrother or not, he’s hiring men to get the battery. Plans to pass it off as his own work.”

She smiled grimly. “So far, he’s been less than successful.” Her eyes glittered in the lamp light as she studied his broad shoulders. “Although hiring you is a clear step up.”

Edison tensed. His gaze went automatically to the shadows surrounding the building, alert for the slightest movement. “He’s sent men before?”

“Several times.” She shrugged. “None of them had anywhere near your abilities.”

“Which is why you’ve taken to confronting strange men in the middle of the night, armed with nothing but a toy.”

“I can shoot. I would do if absolutely required.” The shudder accompanying her boast robbed it of any persuasive force.

The urgency of the danger drew him closer until the scent of violets warmed by her skin filled his senses. “He won’t stop. Not until he knows the device is far out of his reach.” He stared into her dark eyes, willing her to understand the danger. “Let me help you. I can keep it safe. Tell me where to find Templeton. He’s after him, too.”

She dropped her gaze, and her mouth tightened, as if he’d disappointed her deeply. “Mr. Templeton is quite safe. I assure you.”

And then it all made sense. Would have sooner, had he not been so blind to the possibilities.

Edison slapped a hand to his forehead. “A Templeton.” He shook his head at his own stupidity. “It’s not Archie or Alastair or Adam. It’s you.”

“Congratulations on that monumental piece of mental agility.” The sarcasm in her voice would have sliced a lesser man to ribbons. “Why I should be surprised after all this time, I have no earthly idea.”

“My apologies.” Chagrined, Edison offered a deep bow.

That was his next mistake.

The instant he took his eyes off her, Miss A Templeton launched a beaker of tan liquid straight at him.

He ducked, but not soon enough. The stream hit him full in the face just before the glass bounced off his temple and crashed to the floor and shattered.

He braced for the pain, imagining the chemicals penetrating his skin, setting nerve endings aflame.

While he swiped the liquid from his eyes, she darted out the door and disappeared into the shadows.

There was no pain.

No searing agony.

He sniffed at the cuff of his overcoat. Tea. The damned wench had attacked him with a pot of cold tea.

He lunged after her, slowed only by the wide grin that split his face. Miss A Templeton was becoming a delightful distraction.

* * *

Ada raced across the dark lawn.

He could easily run her to ground. She had no illusions about that. The man looked strong and fit, and he’d already demonstrated an uncanny quickness.

Her lungs burned. The yard had never seemed so large, the back of the house—safety—so far away.

If she could have spared the breath, she might have laughed. There wasn’t much in the way of safety to be found inside. Stooped with age and nearly deaf, her butler, Beecham, would be snoring away in his bed. She could scream to roust Cook, or the young maids, but they’d be frightened to death, and truly, her assailant could make short work of the lot of them, should he wish.

To say nothing of Grandmama. He’d scare her out of her wits.

No, she didn’t dare bring a household full of defenseless women to his attention.

Adrenaline shot through her, making her knees wobble. Her toe caught on the hem of her old dress. She stumbled forward, but managed to keep her feet beneath her. Nothing registered over her own ragged breathing, though she knew he was behind her, eating up the space between them with quick, powerful steps.

She pumped her arms hard, surging forward, trying to ignore the way her corset squeezed her expanding lungs. If only she could make the terrace. Once in the library, she could grab something—a lamp, a book, Harrison’s brass clock—to cosh him with, should he dare follow her inside.

The man was a thief—obviously—but she’d sensed a strange decency. Perhaps he’d be loath to terrify her entire household.

She’d almost reached the terrace when he caught her.

An arm slipped around her waist, pulling her tight against his hard form. One instance she was running for her life, the next she was wrapped in a bear hug and swept straight off her feet, her body pitching toward the ground. She braced for the impact, but at the last moment he twisted her aside and landed on his back, absorbing the energy of their fall.

Before she could scramble off of him, he flipped her facedown on the lawn, his hard, warm body pressing her into the cold grass. It seemed futile beneath his great weight, but she couldn’t stop herself from struggling.

He didn’t speak, didn’t make a sound. Not a grunt, not a threat, nothing to suggest it took any effort to hold her down. He simply blanketed her with his superior weight and allowed her to exhaust herself, much like a fish struggling in a net, though she didn’t much care for the comparison.

Finally, it occurred to her she’d be better off conserving her strength, and she stilled.

Which presented new dangers.

The man was strong and warm. He smelled of soap and wool. She could measure each slow, even breath he took by the way his hard stomach pressed against her back with each inhale. Thank God her bustle saved her from the feel of his more… masculine parts.

“You seem a logical sort,” he murmured close to her ear once she’d stilled beneath him. “I was hoping we could talk about this.”

The scathing set down she fashioned morphed into a pathetic squeak somewhere between her lungs and her mouth. She wanted to think it was the weight of him smashing her into the ground. It couldn’t be the breathless sense of shock his touch created.

Because she was immune to that.

At her squeak, he shifted much of his weight off of her, thought he still covered her from shoulders to toes.

Ada lifted her head and stared at the back of the house, willing Beecham—or Grandmama even—to thrust aside the curtain and check the yard.

Not a drape twitched. The house appeared as barren as the cold, dark yard. There were no crickets, no owls, not even a lonely alley cat to cut the silence.

Just her splayed out across the lawn beneath a perfect stranger.

She pressed her forehead into the icy grass. It was enough to make her wish she’d never pursued her love of chemistry. Had she not spent so many years buried in her laboratory, not allowed herself to focus so singularly on learning everything there was to know about electro-chemical energy, it wouldn’t have come to this.

Never would she have guessed her contribution to the field would end with her spread-eagled beneath some criminal.

She dug her fingers into the thick grass, squeezing the blades between her fingers before yanking them up by their roots. A criminal who had the ability to inflame her body, to set off its own cascade of chemical reactions she was powerless to dampen.

Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes, which only stoked her anger. She was no watering pot. She’d endured incessant patronizing, constant disbelieve, unrelieved ridicule, all without shedding a single tear. She wouldn’t start now. Not when she was so very close to the respect she deserved.

She opened her fists, dropping the handfuls of grass, and ruthlessly blinked the moisture away.

“It’s Aurelia, isn’t it?” His soft breath tickled her ear, sending a jolt of awareness all the way to the tips of her toes.

She squirmed beneath him. How could a complete stranger affect her so?

“Amelia.” His breath stirred the hair at her temple, making her wonder what his lips would feel like touching hers. “Adelaide. No, not Adelaide. Augusta? Annabelle?”

His voice was deep, and ever so compelling. She could feel it—actually feel it—rumbling from his chest through hers, setting off a disturbing cascade of hormonal fireworks.

And that wasn’t the worst of it. His lips were a finger’s width from her ear. If she turned her head, they’d brush the sensitive edge. Even the thought made her breath hitch in her throat.

She had to stop the exquisite torture before she did something outrageously foolish.

“Ada,” she admitted.

“Ada.” He paused, as if savoring the taste of it. “I’m Edison. Edison Sweet.”

And he was setting her entire body on fire.

Ada shoved back against him, needing to move, needing him off of her before she begged him to kiss her. “Sweet. Yes, very nice, I’m sure. Now that we’ve been introduced, would you get off me?”

“Promise you won’t run?”

Ada had to consider that for a moment. “All right.”

He sprang to his feet and offered a hand, which she ignored.

Hampered by yards of black serge and a stiff corset, she struggled to her feet with far less grace. When she glanced up after shaking out her skirts, he was studying her as if she were an oddity at the local zoo.

“What?” she snapped.

She supposed the boyish grin that bloomed across his face had sent countless other women swooning. To be strictly truthful, it was rather spectacular. Luckily, she had no inclination to be charmed. Lord knew more than a few had tried. Wealthy widows attracted men like flies to honey.

He shook his head. “I’ve never been bested with a pitcher of tea before.”

“Tea?”

“That stuff you tossed on me. Quite clever.”

His praise made her heart flutter. She did her best to ignore it, but there was no denying those words, delivered in that honeyed voice, with that delightfully deep timber, warmed a place deep in her core that hadn’t been touched in a very long time.